


νοσταλγία Deleted Scenes

by Luce_cm



Series: νοσταλγία [4]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Mythology References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28367457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luce_cm/pseuds/Luce_cm
Summary: Κατακηλέω: to charm, cast a spell over (Ancient Greek)This one focuses mainly on Narses and it takes place between chapters 16 and 17 (17 and 18 on AO3)
Relationships: Hvitserk & Ivar (Vikings), Ivar & Ubbe (Vikings), Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/You
Series: νοσταλγία [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076336
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	1. Κατακηλέω

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Κατακηλέω: to charm, cast a spell over (Ancient Greek)
> 
> This one focuses mainly on Narses and it takes place between chapters 16 and 17 (17 and 18 on AO3)

“It scares you, doesn’t it?” Freydis starts suddenly one night, and you lift your eyes to her but don’t say anything. So, she continues, “The reminder of what you could do.”

“If you mean-…”

“You know what I mean. You could lie, and I keep wondering why you don’t.”

“Lying is what you would do, is it not?” You snap, head tilted to the side.

The blonde’s smile turns smug, as if she just made you give away a card. Instead of saying anything regarding that, she shrugs,

“You have traveled a lot, lived a lot,” She states, moving carefully and taking a seat next to you, seemingly choosing to ignore your eyes following her. “Will you tell me you are unaware of what men are able and willing to do for a woman’s love?

She stops whatever it is she was going to say next when an elderly woman enters the apothecary, her blue eyes following the woman’s moves. You are reminded of that night when she shared her thoughts by a window and was interrupted - _eyes and ears follow the witch_ -, and realize why she holds her tongue.

Instead of waiting for the other woman to leave, she stands up and asks you to follow with but a gesture of her head.

Certain steps take you both to the same elevated patch of cold and foreign grass that saw you lay on your knees and pray to whatever Gods heard you to give you an answer.

And so, Freydis continues on,

“Look at all Ivar did to get you to be at his side. Imagine what he would do with the promise you could love him,” Manic blue eyes meet yours as Freydis stops you with a hand on your arm. You pointedly look down at it and back up at her face, feeling a tightness in your chest, dread mixed with disdain. “Imagine what he would do if you pretended to love him and threatened to take it away.”

There’s only one answer you can give her.

“Get your hand off me.”

If you were your mother, you’d have a sword in your hands and a snarl on your lips. But you never wanted to fight like a man, and so you only let the cold of this land seep into your voice and harden your expression, your voice.

She remains frozen for a few moments too long, and you once again pointedly look at her hand and back into her eyes.

“I don’t like repeating myself,” You state, and only then does she comply, her eyes searching yours. You return your arm to be comfortable covered by the warm cloak, and turn to keep walking. “I do not want to hear another word of this, you hear me? Not another damned word.”

“Does that mean you’ve given up? You’ll let him keep you here?”

“I _said_ not another word.”

Freydis swallows whatever her words are to be next, and nods her head, accepting your order as if she thinks you gave her a choice.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Freydis speaks again.

“You choose to protect him now, is that it?”

Her dainty and delicate voice loses none of the edge and the certainty, even as her eyes betray something more human.

“You are a smart woman,” You concede instead of answering her questions, and tilt your head to the side, “But a smarter one would know when to hold her tongue.”

“You don’t hold yours.”

“I never claimed to be smart,” You reply easily, before bowing your head in goodbye. “Goodnight, Freydis.”

She knows it is a dismissal, and a rude one at that, but she only returns the gesture. You could swear a strange sort of pride shines in the girl’s dark blue eyes as she takes her leave.

____

And now you sit alone overlooking that same cliff and you cannot get her words out of your head. You wish you could hate her, berate her for her games and call her names, say she is nothing but a liar, a whore.

But it is not so simple, is it? You seduced a man into giving you his army, did it so well Freydis trusted you to seek Freyja’s favor and do the same with the King, knew you had what it took with only but a look at you.

You promised your love to Narses only for the faint possibility that he could drive the Byzantine Christians off your lands, that he could bend his army and his strength to your will and give you the kingdom you deserved.

And you did to Narses everything that Freydis would have done to Ivar. You kissed, lied, and promised yourself; for the sake of a game.

Because when all you are told you can be is a warm pair of legs to wrap around a man, a pretty little jewel for him to keep and parade around, a quiet and beautiful maiden to stand beneath who the Gods deem you belong to; you learn to play games, all women do.

You wrap your legs tight enough he begs for mercy trying to escape your spell, you show them how even jewels draw blood if squeezed too tight in a fool’s hand, you let beauty carry you near him and your voice be a whisper as it reaches his ear. You play games.

But, as you sit on the cold grass overlooking Kattegat’s horizon, the sea and the sky meeting far away and reminding you strikingly of dusks and dawns spent on that temple overlooking the ocean and awaiting for those ships; you think about how no women speak of what happens when the game ends.

Because it always ends. It is a world of change, after all, a world of wheels turning and of days and nights and of seasons unending. It goes on and on, and the world changes, the games end.

Maybe you don’t hear women speak of what happens when it ends because few survive it. Those that do, maybe, just like you, refuse to speak of it, refuse to give voice to the pain and the shame that comes after playing with a heart not your own.

Refuse to admit the regret.

_“You’ll do it?” He asks, eyes shining, “You’ll be my wife?”_

_“I would love to marry you,” You lie, you lie, you lie; and it burns your heart, “But I don’t want to bring our children into a world that will push them into the dirt for the Gods they follow, Narses.”_

_And just like that, promises, vows, oaths, fall from his perfect lips like he cannot help it. And you believe him, because if you hold your breath and dive past the smoke into the memories of your past, you can recognize that the way Narses looks at you now is the same way your father used to look at your mother._

_You remember Sieghild’s teachings about Freyja, about her ways of persuasion and seduction, and wonder if, even if you are foreign to her, the Goddess looks over you. You wonder if she would smile or frown at your games._

_You fall down on the grass, keeping your hold on Narses’ hands to tug him down with you. Narses falls with a laugh, legs and arms holding him up above you, dark green eyes shining as they look down upon yours._

_It is remarkably easy, to surrender to his kiss. You close your eyes, letting your fingers go up into his hair, and allowing your lips and tongue to dance with his._

_When his impatient lips move down to your jaw, your neck; you let him, craning your head back so he can have more access to your skin. If you clear your mind, you can almost feel nothing but pleasure._

_When you tug particularly hard on his hair as Narses bites at your collarbone, you feel a breathed laugh leave his nose._

_Lifting himself up in strong arms on each side of your head, Narses looks down upon you. His words should not hurt like they do by now, as you are so familiar with them you know what they will be before he even opens his mouth._

_He steals another quick kiss, and whispers, “I love you.”_

_As a lover, as his future wife._

_You smile through the pain, and answer, “I love you.”_

_As a friend, as the protector of your people._

_As an instrument of war._

You are reminded of the safety of Narses’ embrace, however suffocating; and you can almost taste your name on his lips, bloodied as they were the last time you saw him alive.

“You are in the Elysian Fields, I know,” You start telling the wind, hoping it can carry your words to him, “Or maybe these Varangians’ Gods are fighting with ours to take you with them to Valhalla. Either way, I hope you can hear my voice one last time, my friend.”

You laugh brokenly to yourself, lowering your gaze to the grass under your body, caressing the dark tresses of nature.

“I know I don’t make much sense, I-I never did to you. Ramblings about Fate and empires fallen and tales of Gods and heroes; things that you had no interest in hearing. And yet you still looked upon me like something…something out of a dream, Narses,” You tell him, pain clawing at your heart, reopening wounds you thought you closed long ago. You smile sadly still, and reminisce, “You used to tell me I was your dream, and…I wish I could tell you that you were mine, I truly do. But I can’t.”

And regret fills you, the useless and heartbreaking gift of hindsight showing you that the path you took led only to pain and war. Narses was sent by your choices, by your games, by your mistakes, to die; and you…you were sent here. To what?

You dare think not even the Gods have an answer to your present, or future. But you do have answers to your past, and if someone deserves to hear them, it is Narses, wherever he may be.

“Returning to Eleusis choked me with the smoke of all the fires lit before I left and during my time away. I…blinded myself with ambition and I thought the only way I could fight was through you,” You explain, honestly, brokenly, the only way you know how to, “I knew that if I had the heart of Thebes’ Strategus, I could get what I wanted. I just had to have enough guile, enough lies, enough poison; to trick you into giving me your heart.

You offer the wind a hollow chuckle, bitter and angry and oh so filled with regret you can feel your heart poisoned with it.

“And I did exactly that. Maybe Aphrodite and Peitho blessed my lies, maybe Sieghild was right and Freyja watched over me,” You look over Kattegat’s horizon, facing the truths of your past when you don’t know what you want out of your future, “Either way, I used you, I hated myself but I still did it and…I got what I wanted.

_As the agony of the flames crawls over your legs, scorching your skin with the inferno, blinding your eyes with the smoke, flogging your throat with your screams; you turn your gaze to the sky, blackened and barren as it is, and plead the Gods you have fought and bled for to grant you a moment of mercy, a painless death._

_And flesh being charred smells awful, making your poisoned lungs heave for unattainable retrieve. You hold a moment of clarity in your mind to beg for Sieghild’s forgiveness, that you left her in this world alone after she sacrificed so much for you. You hope her Gods let you visit her in Folkvangr._

_With one last ragged and angry scream, you let your strength leave you, your agony leave you, your regrets leave you._

_When you awaken you find yourself in too much pain to accept this is the Underworld. Before you open your eyes, a moment of panic and dread fills your heart at the thought that the Christians left you alive to torture you, but you hear familiar voices, smell familiar fragrances._

_Sieghild’s hand over your forehead, gentle and loving in ways she rarely is, makes a small smile tug at your dried and bleeding lips._

_“I know you are awake, open your eyes,” She chastises, gruff even when relief clogs her voice. You do, and her smiling inked face settles your quickly beating heart, makes you forget the pain for a moment. “I love you, you stubborn child.”_

_You allow yourself a smile, closing your eyes again and focusing on breathing for a few moments, before whispering, “I love you too, minn móðir.”_

_The shieldmaiden chuckles brokenly, pressing rough lips on the crown of your head. After a few moments of silence, she sighs._

_“By the way, you mad woman, you did it.”_

_“Did what?” You ask raggedly, wincing as you lift your head to accept the cup of water she offers._

_“Listen, little one,” She instructs, and when you do, you hear the rustling of armor plates, the heavy steps of soldiers outside your door. The Viking woman shakes her head in almost disbelief, “The Strategos, that boy, he saved you from the flames.”_

_“Narses?”_

_“His soldiers came with us, we have nearly a thousand men here.”_

“I did so many things wrong, Narses. I lied and manipulated and pretended, and maybe because the Gods are cruel, or maybe because reaping what you sow is an empty promise; I succeeded, and I got what I wanted. I knew I wouldn’t win, not against the Empire, not against the Christians, but…I wanted them to remember me, to remember our names and our Gods and our ways. To remember we don’t die silently.

And even if it hurts, you admit to yourself that you would do it again. You wish you could have loved Narses the way he deserved, you wish you could have been honest, you wish you could have found other ways to fight for your kingdom; but…you understand why you did it, and feeble and useless as it is, you want to forgive yourself for it.

Where there is war there can never be love, right? And you wanted war, you will not lie to yourself and say you truly wanted peace all along.

No, you wanted to see those Christians that came to take your home bleed at your feet, you wanted Attica to be free again, and Laconia, and Macedonia, and Arcadia, and many others. And you would wage war for your freedom for a thousand years if needed.

You would promise Narses your hand again if it came to it. You know you would, because the person you were when Attica was yours…she would have done that and much more for a chance at freedom. Now, you know better. Now, you let yourself be softer. Now, the world is a lot bigger than it seemed back then.

Now, things are different. Maybe you are, maybe the world is, maybe your heart is. Maybe Ivar is.

You smile at the barren horizon that doesn’t seem so foreign and intimidating now, and whisper, “I could do it now, I know. I would end up dead when he knew the truth, that’s for certain, but the victory would be mine, _our people’s_ , by the time Ivar could catch up with my lies. I could, Narses.

_“We need Stithulf’s support. We will ally with him, and even if you scream and fight it is what will happen.”_

_But you are shaking your head before he even finishes speaking._

_“As Anassa of Attica I ca-…”_

_“As the commander of your forces,_ as the man you’ll marry _, I’m telling y-…”_

 _The hostility, the_ command _, in his tone startle you to attention, and you narrow your eyes as you step closer. You don’t reach his shoulder, but the years have taught you there’s few things a man fears more than a woman that refuses to fight like a man but still fights._

_“If you try using that to silence me, I fear you will not live long as my husband.” The threat drips from your lips like wine, but Narses doesn’t cave for once, and he drags a hand over his face._

_“You always fight me, why do you…why can’t you be…?” His words die in a sigh, and you lift your eyebrows._

_“Why can’t I be someone I’m not? Would you love me if I were anything other than me?”_

_“Sometimes, I wish you were,” He sentences, a hand over his eyes as he grunts out the words. Your heart drops, and so does your guard. He sighs again, and a hand reaches up and cups your cheek, unaware your whole body tightens to a coil the moment he touches you. “Sometimes, I fool myself into thinking I still see the woman you once were in you. The woman that wanted a life surrounded by Eleusis’ warmth, the woman that cared not for war, for vengeance.”_

_You grit your teeth, and step back, closing your eyes tightly as you croak,_

_“That woman was never all I was. I wanted Eleusis, I still do, but that doesn’t mean I never wanted revenge, Narses. Those Christia-…”_

_When you feel he finally drops his hand from your cheek, you open your eyes and watch his hand clench into a fist._

_“Why do I have to love a woman like you?” He hisses, turning his back to you and slamming both hands on the weak table in front of him. “I’ve asked the Gods why, you know. Why I have to love a woman arrogant and ambitious and…Hera help me, a woman that is not mine. Never was, never will be.”_

_“I-…What are you saying?”_

_“Do you think I’m enough of a fool to think I can make you my wife? If the Fates don’t stop me_ you _will,” A humorless chuckle leaves his lips, “Lord Hades might split open the earth and drag you to the Underworld before I get to call you my wife.”_

_“Don’t say those things.”_

_“It is true! I was not Fated to have you, even if the Gods know I was Fated to love you,” He shakes his head, teeth gritted and eyes failing to meet yours, “We both know what made you say yes to me, and it is what is keeping you from saying yes to Stithulf. It was never love.”_

_Shame chokes you, keeps the next words form leaving your lips. Your lips tremble and your eyes cloud with tears as you look at his tense back, nothing but regrets shining in your eyes._

_“Are you-…will you l-leave?”_

Will you leave me? Is _the question you dare not ask, because you do not have the right to believe he should want to stay at your side, not after everything._

_You still don’t want him to leave you alone here._

_But the Thebesian takes a deep breath, straightening his back again and turning to you. The same anguished softness you saw so many times in his eyes still shines in them now, and he shakes his head._

_His voice when he replies feels like warmth, like safety and nostalgia,_

_“I will always be at your side. Until Hades summons you home, I’ll be at your side.”_

_You look into his warm eyes, and with shame still burning your chest, you ask,_

_“Why? The Gods know I do not deserve it. Why do you stay?”_

_The answer leaves his lips with the same certainty it always did, with the same hope and the same truth,_

_“I love you.”_

You like to believe you would have loved Narses, you like to believe you would have been content remaining as Eleusis’ Priestess. You like to believe you could have birthed him children for you to teach the way of the Gods and he to give the fame of his family.

Problem is, you fear now, with the taste of this strange freedom still fresh and sweet on your tongue, you don’t think you could have ever lived with the binds of what Narses wanted to make out of you. A priestess, whose ambition is forgotten when he wills it so; a woman, whose eyes will need to lower from his; a wife, to be quietened when he speaks.

And you don’t want that, to be what Narses wanted you to, what Galla wanted you to, what Freydis wants you to, what Ivar wants you to. You want to be you, and you want to fight, and be compassionate and revengeful, and be soft and relentless, without needing to choose one or the other.

You want nights of stupid arguments and infuriating talks, you realize around a broken chuckle, you want foreign languages and even more foreign customs, you want…you want Ivar. In all his vitriol, in all his bloodthirst, in all his awkward gentleness and in all his armored heart, you want him.

Tears of regret and the path not taken fill your eyes, and you find yourself sobbing out a small laugh, “But the person that lied and tricked you, that could do the same to Ivar…she died amongst the flames, left me in her place, I think.

_The Priestess is dead._

Taking the small knife Ivar gifted you what seems like a lifetime ago, you hold a lock of your hair in front of you, and cut off the wind-blown and tangled strands, holding a short tress in your hand that weights like a decade of apologies and promises made.

“I’m sorry. For everything I did and everything I didn’t do,” You promise him, closing your eyes and almost seeing his smiling face before you, his eyes shining and his sun-kissed skin weathered around a smile. “In another life, I may have loved you like you deserved.”

You open your palm, and let the strands of grief be carried off by Kattegat’s winds way across the sea.

And in another world, on another land, a dead man takes a breath.


	2. Πᾰ́σχω

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Πᾰ́σχω (páskhō): to feel an emotion or impulse; (in negative sense) to suffer (Ancient Greek)
> 
> This focuses mainly on Ivar and his condition, and it takes place between chapter 21 and 22 (22 and 23 on AO3), chronologically after Ivar's PoV

One of the first mornings you wake a wife to someone, you find yourself surprised to find Ivar continues to sleep when you awaken. Unusual would be an understatement, since you usually wake up every morning because of the ruckus the thralls make when walking in at the request of the King, or he wakes you by promptly lifting the furs off you when he gets out of bed.

For a few moments -that you’ll deny to your very grave ever happened- you lay in the soft light of the morning and let your eyes hungrily take in his features when he lies relaxed in sleep; you let yourself forget what brought you here and what awaits you in the world past the two of you and imagine a life of this, of quiet mornings and safety and peace, a life where it wouldn’t feel like a betrayal to who you are to lean closer and chase the warmth of his skin or the thrill of his lips on yours.

But that isn’t the life you have, and even if your heart is soft and foolish, it is also proud and stubborn. So, you slip from under the furs and walk away silently to get dressed.

You are lifting your hair up in a simply updo when Ivar’s voice calls out to you.

“Your dress,” He points out, “It’s still unlaced.”

You bite back a smile and feeling a strange thrill run through you at the subtle change in his voice when he first wakes up. Choosing not to dwell on it, you walk to the bed where he still lays, sitting down on the edge of his side of the bed and turning your back to him, a silent prompt for him to lace it for you.

He huffs in what in another life, a life of less pain and less harshness, could have been a laugh; and starts working the laces at your back.

But there’s no hiding the trembling in his hands, and you straighten as cold fear runs down your spine. You turn around with the foreboding of someone used to noticing people’s pain, you meet his eyes with the calculating gaze of a healer.

“Your eyes are…” You whisper before you can trap the words behind your lips. _Blue._

A shield wall forming before your very eyes would be a more subtle change than the one Ivar has at the mention of it. His expression hardens, his eyes grow cold and his voice is that of the King of Kattegat instead of that of the man you married when he orders,

“Get out. You have a day to get on with.”

You frown, and your tongue begs to ask questions stubbornness does not let past your lips.

You’re carefully pulling your hair into a half-updo when Ivar makes the first attempt to get out of bed. He succeeds, but he doesn’t succeed in masking the very obvious pain he is in, nor in making you feel any less worried.

You’re fastening a cloak around your shoulders when he finishes putting those iron contraptions around his legs, with more difficulty than usual. You’re once again told, by either the instinct that made you a good healer in the Roads, or something else, that he isn’t well, that he’s in pain, that…that something is wrong.

“Are y-…”

Whatever it is you were to ask dies in your throat with a choked gasp as you watch him fall to the ground. The sound of a bone snapping out of place is something you are very familiar with, but the scream of pain it draws out of Ivar is not something a thousand years could make you be used to.

You realize you’ve stepped closer when your husband brandishes a knife your way.

It unsettles you less than it should, it surprises you even less. You have the errant thought of whether Kattegat and her King have succeeded in making you lose your mind.

“Get. Out,” He bites out, but you can still hear the pain in his voice. You can still tell that knee is not properly set, and you know how to fix it. _If he’d just let you…_ “ _Get out!_ ”

Your words die in your throat, but your fear of him died long ago, so you don’t say anything, but you also don’t leave.

He moves with gritted teeth and strain written all over him to sit on one of the lower chairs. When his eyes lift to meet yours again, you see not only the expected pain and fury written in them, but also…shame.

And Ivar’s eyes fall from yours, and a cold hand grips at your heart but nothing of who you are can make this better. If you are as hardship made you, stubborn and arrogant and sharp-tongued, he’ll only fight back at you until there’s nothing left of either of you. If you are as nature made you, soft and gentle and loving, he’ll only think you pity him, mock him.

But he doesn’t give you a choice. Sharp orders he barks at nothing summon two thralls and a stoic Whitehair that stands tall in your doorway.

The older warrior looks at you with the impassiveness of a man following orders, but you turn your eyes to your husband.

“I don’t want you here.” He spits out, poison and vitriol.

You stomp your way out of the room.

____

You pointedly avoid Whitehair’s expectant stare as you pace on the other end of your bedroom door.

“Stubborn, insufferable, hot-headed…”

“It will take a while to list it all, my Queen.” The man dryly points out, startling a laugh out of you, but you shake off the brief levity it brings just as quickly.

“I should be in there.” You point out. The older warrior sighs, and leans back against a wall, arms crossed.

“But you aren’t.”

You bite down words about how perceptive he has proven to be, and instead shrug.

“I was kicked out of my own room,” You turn your eyes to the door, and bite out, “I’m a good healer, one of the best.”

“You are his wife.”

“All the more reason I should be allowed to help him.”

“He doesn’t want you to think him weak.”

“I d-…”

“I know, little one,” He interrupts, nodding his head. You are stunned into silence at the term of endearment no one except your mother has used on you. He looks at you with a reluctant softness in his one good eye, strangely paternal when he shrugs, “But he doesn’t. He is young, he’s yet to learn many things.”

Another scream you never wish to hear again pierces the dull silence between you and the man assigned to guard you, and you flinch away with a curse from the source of the pained scream that quickly morphs into an enraged yell.

Turning your back to the door, you start making your way quickly and confidently to the apothecary.

Whitehair’s voice is a quiet grumble when, as he trails behind you, he states, “You are also Queen of Kattegat. Don’t forget that.”

Your steps falter as you realize the meaning behind his quiet words, but still you say nothing and continue walking.

____

Valdís raises her gaze from the dried herbs she’s working on when you enter, a smile ready on her lips that falters when she sees you.

The shieldmaiden stands without a moment of hesitation, crossing the room to get to you.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” Her hand finds your shoulder. “You are shaking.”

Gritting your teeth, you mumble you are well, and walk past her, towards the back of the apothecary. You feel Valdís walking behind you, tense and ready to face whatever it is that has upset you, ever the shieldmaiden.

You walk up to the elder and raise your chin.

“I wish to speak with you.”

“Of course, my Qu-…”

“Not as Queen of Kattegat,” You interrupt, but your steel resolve falters when you pick your next words. Running your tongue over dry lips, you amend, “As…as Ivar’s wife.”

The woman of white hair nods once, and motions for you to take a seat. At your hesitation, she chuckles, but says nothing as she does sit down on one of the chairs.

“Speak, my Qu-…my dear.”

“I know what he has told me, not what a healer could tell me.”

“Ah,” She murmurs, “Broken bone?”

“Displaced.” You correct.

And so the elder leans back on her seat, weathered hands folded over her stomach, and tells you what she knows. You cling to the words, reminiscent of those lessons the healers of the roads would give the wide-eyed girl you once were, and learn as much as you can of Ivar’s condition, what it means, how to treat it, what causes it, what worsens it.

She mutters she doesn’t know anything more of it, and so you nod, and ask,

“And who is the healer that-…”

“No one, I’m afraid. Usually a thrall will take care of the most pressing matter, and the King will prefer to handle it alone.”

“That’s…”

“Stupid?” Valdís offers from behind you. You offer a shrug, but _yes_.

“Before he became King, I was close to the healer that was to help him. Since he returned from England, he refuses to…be helped.”

“Why?”

“He’s-…”

“Paranoid.” Valdís states when the elder hesitates, and earns herself a wooden bowl thrown at her head by the older woman. The shieldmaiden laughs, but mumbles that it’s true.

“Reluctant,” The elder amends pointedly, “to be seen like this.”

“Would you be willing to help him now?” The woman hesitates, and you press, “If I asked?”

“If my Queen demands I do, of course.” Is what she settles for saying, and you accept the meaning behind her words with a sigh.

Valdís sees your resolve shining in your eyes, for the blonde rolls her eyes and mutters a curse.

“Sure, refuse to do as he says,” She grumbles, walking away, “ _That’ll_ work out.”

____

Shortly after, you walk to your room’s door with your head held high, your steps certain and your demeanor that of the woman your mother hated seeing in you.

 _You tilt your head to the side, keeping your eyes on the Thebesian, “I don’t think you understand, Narses._ I said _we will sail for Laconia.”_

_“The Spartans w-…”_

_“Your Anassa gave you an order,” You interrupt, not saying anything else and keeping your eyes on the warm ones of the man that claims to love you but wants to keep you obedient and quiet. When Narses keeps stubborn eyes on you, you insist with raised eyebrows, “It is best you obey me.”_

_He rolls his shoulders and grits his teeth, but eventually bows his head and leaves the tent. You don’t realize you keep holding on to the tension in your frame until your mother laughs._

_“By Freyja and all the Gods, little one,” Sieghild runs a hand over her face, another short laugh leaving her lips, “You can blame your impulsiveness, your stubbornness, many of your faults on me. But_ that _, that you cannot.”_

_Galla chuckles from her place at your side, still not lifting her dark eyes from the map before her._

_“Annoying, is it not?” She spares you a glance from the corner of your eye, “Born with a crown on her head, this one.”_

“What is it you can inform me of?” You ask the man set firmly by the door. He hesitates, but tells you that the King is resting for now, that he hasn’t heard anything in a while.

You move to enter the room, and the man moves to stop you.

A stray memory makes its way into your head when you hesitate by the door, meeting the eyes of the warrior that was given instructions by your husband not to let you in, and you hear the words as if they were spoken by your ear.

 _“Don’t lie to me, Priestess. You were_ made _to rule, to command. Don’t pretend otherwise with me.”_

And so you keep your spine straight and your eyes cold, “Move.”

“I-…”

“ _You_ will move.” You insist, tilting your head back to look at the man but not faltering in your stance.

In a result that surprises you, and stuns you for longer than it should, he does.

Thankfully Ivar isn’t here to see you begrudgingly accept he was right about something.

“Did he pass out, or did you give him something?” You ask quietly as you walk in, barely sparing a glance at the man that kneels by the fire.

The thrall stumbles into standing, and the first thing you do is eye his hands. He doesn’t look like someone trained in healing, much less trained in settling bones back into place.

“I-I…we didn’t give the King anything.”

The confirmation that the pain was enough to leave him unconscious makes your stomach tighten to a knot, and irrational and misdirected anger rise in you.

“Get out.”

You close your eyes and take a breath, trying to clear your head. There was a reason why you never treated those you…those close to you. A soft heart is a good quality in a woman, but not in a healer.

You need a steel spine and steady hands, you need unblurred eyes and certain voice. You need strength, and coldness, and distance.

You can muster the first of those, but when it comes to the insufferable man that the Gods fated to be your husband, you fear you can’t say the same about the other two.

“M-My Qu-…”

You lift an eyebrow, returning your eyes to his.

“I don’t like repeating myself. You are dismissed. If I call for you, you will go to the healers. Valdís knows who to send if needed.”

He bows his head, and leaves the room quickly enough, leaving you with the feeling he was ultimately relieved he doesn’t have to be here anymore.

You watch him leave, and when the door closes behind him, and you are left alone with Ivar, you feel something within you quiver and give away fragility.

It is easy, finding the routine of getting to work, finding your center in picking the right herbs and remembering old instructions.

Yet you find your gaze finding the figure of your husband on the ample bed, eyes squeezed shut at the pian that you see making his body tighten to a coil every few moments, brow shining with the sweat of exertion and teeth gritted to keep most of the sounds of pain at bay.

Refusing to let go of control even when unconscious, you realize. And it doesn’t surprise you.

You’ve come to know a lot about him, in these past months. From Aneridge, to those days on route to Kattegat, to the time you’ve spent as his prisoner and as his wife in this kingdom of cold. Not a thousand years at his side, you realize, not all the trust in the world and all the spilled secrets, would give you an inkling as to what life has been like for him.

His manic conviction that the Gods were to reward him for enduring pain and grief and sorrow for years on end; his certainty you were, if nothing else, a gift for having endured a lifetime of pain; it is understandable, you realize.

Something you will never forget or forgive, you are certain, but something you can understand.

You were barely ten when you first worked on willow extract. The motions for making it are by now engrained in your mind, and you could close your eyes and follow the directions countless teachers gave you.

Still, because you cannot help the stubborn softness that makes you who you are, your foolish heart that betrays your every ambition, your hands that shake as you prepare the tincture.

“Remember Aneridge?” You muse, even though you know you’re talking to yourself, “I gave you willow bark to help with the pain. This is…a stronger version of it. Bitter and yet sour. Awful, really.”

You open your mouth and you are ready to continue talking, even if to fill the silence and focus on something that isn’t the shaking of your hands, but you find Ivar’s eyes -like you’ve never seen them, clouded in pain and confusion, _lost_ \- set on you.

He murmurs your name, voice so quiet you almost read it on his lips instead of hearing it.

“You’re here.” He says, soft, with a strange mix of confusion and wonder. You are struck silent for so long, lost in the shades of blue of his eyes, on _him_.

And you think numbly to yourself that it is he they should whisper is capable of magic, for you feel the words being pulled from your lips as if under a spell.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

The words settle in your chest with the realization of how true they prove to be.

You swallow down that shame, and take a breath, lowering your gaze to your hands.

When you raise your eyes again, Ivar’s eyes are closed again, and even if there’s a furrow of his brows, the tension that speaks of pain written all over him, and his breathing is still the irregular pattern of trying to not let the pain win, it seems he is once again asleep.

When he wakes up again, you’re carefully examining the chess pieces he keeps on a nearby table, and become aware he’s woken up when he grunts how you shouldn’t be here.

“You should know better than to tell me what to do by now.”

“I didn’t want you to…to see,” That wasn’t what you expected. You expected anger, vitriol, not…resignation. Before you can ask what he means, he turns his head and once again faces the ceiling. A hoarse and bitter laugh that rattles inside your head leaves his lips, and he mumbles, “Thought I could make you forget.”

Realization dawns on you, and you sigh, “You don’t need to make me forget, you need to let me…”

“Help me? Spare me the pity, wife.” Ivar bites out, gritting his teeth and breathing sharply at what you assume to be a pang of pain that courses through him when he tries moving.

You grit your own teeth -though for a very different reason- and fail at biting back an annoyed sigh.

“You insist on this being Fate, why is it not Fate that I know how to help? Why is it not work of the Gods that you married a healer?”

The answer leaves his lips with ease, like the answer is obvious and it should be so for you too,

“Because I don’t want you as my healer, I want you as my wife.”

A deep breath, and you find your resolve, your certainty.

“I am your wife,” You remind him, unyielding, “And as the woman _you_ decided to marry, I’m telling you I’m not letting you be in pain if I can do anything to help it. Now, this is a strong extract that helps with pain,” You lift a tisane of willow between you, and offer it, “You will drink this, you will rest until the pain dulls, and you will _never_ _again_ hide something like this from me.”

His eyes remain on yours, defiant and cold and angry and so many more things. You see in his eyes the growing anger at your unwillingness to bend; the desire to hurt back if only because he feels exposed and vulnerable; the relentless searching of any hint of a lie, of pity, of mocking.

You only raise your eyebrows, and move the hand holding the tincture closer.

He grunts out a curse you’ve never heard before and grabs the willow extract, dawning the bitter liquid in a quick gulp. Admiting he trusts you, admiting he believes you, are words that may never leave his lips.

You don’t need them, you realize.

____

Sometime later, you hear Ivar move, and out of the corner of your eye you notice he has sat up on the bed, his back on the bedrest, eyes -much clearer than before- set on you.

“I told you, I don’t want you here.”

“You told me to leave. I left,” You point out, turning around with your head tilted to the side, “You didn’t say anything about coming back.”

Instead of replying, he considers you in silence, before asking,

“Why do you…?”

His words die in a pained grunt, and seeing him in pain when you’ve been taught your whole life how to help people in pain makes your heart hurt deep within your chest.

Your hand reaches out to touch him, to try soothing him, before you realize what you are doing. But you stop yourself, bringing your hands back together in front of you, fingers twisting anxiously.

Taking a breath, you start replying, “What kind of wife w-…”

“The kind of wife that didn’t want to marry me in the first place.” He interrupts.

“Still, I care about you,” You insist, and when his eyes rise to meet yours with a surprise you weren’t expecting, you hurry to continue, “And, with all due respect to your people-…”

“Our people.” He corrects absentmindedly, attention once again focused on moving his legs to a more comfortable position.

“Our people,” You accept, and continue, raising your chin, “I’m the best healer in Kattegat.”

He turns to you with a mocking shine in his eyes, but it is dimmer than usual, “Arrogant.”

“Honest,” You supply instead, grabbing a pitcher of water and settling it to boil over one of the fires. As you wait for the water for the infusion, you turn on your side and eye the box you brought with you. After a moment of consideration, even if you know the answer, you start, “A salve would work best, but I’ll assume you’ll say-…”

“No.”

“Of course,” You nod to yourself. He hasn’t even let you see him without a shirt on, even after being married, so you knew what the answer would be to letting you see -and treat- his legs. “Infusions for the pain it is, then.”

“They won’t work.”

“The willow has worked, hasn’t it?” You point out, turning around. At his silence, you continue, “Then I’ll continue to try. I’m nothing if not stubborn.”

The Viking rolls his eyes, “You don’t have to tell _me_ that.”

You acquiesce with a shrug, “You knew that when you married me.”

“Are you going to use that we’re married against me for much longer?”

“Till death do us part, Viking.” You mock, and that does earn you a chuckle and a wry smile, leaving you lighter and warmer.

____

You manage to convince him to take the hot lavender, primrose, and chickweed infusion. You do not, however, convince him to let you set that knee back into place the correct way, and not the sloppy work a thrall -who was most likely fearing for his life- managed.

“That is not properly set.” You argue through gritted teeth.

“Oh, no,” Ivar deadpans, “How will I ever walk again.”

You roll your eyes, but desist, and just put a hand on his shoulder to push him back to the bed.

Ivar narrows his eyes, “So gentle,” He mocks, “Is this the kind of healer you were in the Mediterranean?”

“No, because my patients were usually much less aggravating,” You point out, not missing a beat. Even if your eyes betray otherwise, you continue, “My gentleness is _earned_.”

“Oh, I’m sure many men have earned it. What was it in exchange for last, hm? An army?

Your nose curls in anger, and you take a deep breath, trying to mask how much the words hurt.

He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, masking his pain in a sigh that trembles past his lips and closing his eyes tightly.

“Probably kept the poor fool happy and blind until you were done with him, huh? You were everything he ever wanted, you promised your love and your trust until he bent over backwards for you; only to stab him in the back in the end.”

“I didn’t betray Narses.” You bite out, but the fight is instinctual, no heat or anger behind your words. All that’s left is hurt and the stinging shame of being reminded of your mistakes.

He doesn’t lose the cruel edge, the sick and punishing tone in his voice that seems to prove he delights himself in hurting you, “You did. You promised to marry him, promised to love him, yet here you are, married to another man. Promised all the same to the next man that vowed to fight the battles you cannot.”

There’s a part of you, a part of you that maybe is too alike him, that wants to fight cruelty with cruelty. Instead, you take a deep breath.

“I didn’t promise you that I would marry you in exchange for Stithulf’s head. I didn’t promise to love you, Ivar.” You remind him lowly, and surprisingly enough it grants you victory in this strange duel he engages you in.

His façade crumbles, his mask slips, and uncertainty and what could be a different kind of pain than the one he has been bearing for half a day now shine in his pale eyes.

“You didn’t have to. I guess I’m more of a fool than that Greek, hm?”

And just like that your fight leaves you as well, and you sigh, before finding a seat in one of the lounges near the bed. You don’t look at him as you speak, instead looking at your hands on your lap.

“I haven’t lied to you. And I won’t.”

“I could give you much more than he ever could.” He reminds you, but you shake your head.

“But I care for you more than I ever could have cared for him.” You reply easily, because the promise of freedom -a promise you know he won’t break, because…what was it? He might break a bone, but he would never break a promise-, of freedom to choose, lying at the end of the tunnel has made you more certain, more calm, it has soothed you, given you the chance to be true and admit things not a hundred years of torture could have made you admit before.

But, you gather, this certainty that once the Christian lies dead and your people are avenged you will be able to make the choice to leave or remain, the choice between hope and nostalgia; what this certainty gives to you -stability, certainty, _peace_ \- it has all taken away from Ivar.

So, you show your cards, you offer truths, you answer the questions his pride doesn’t let him ask.

You clean your hands on a nearby cloth and walk calmly to one of the lavender planters you keep in the room, carefully starting to pluck the drying or dying from the rest.

A frustrated sigh coming from the bed stops you, and without turning back but stills topping in your task, you call out,

“I’m not leaving, so don’t even think of ordering me to.”

“I know,” He grunts, irritated, “But I won’t have you making noise all over the room and distracting me. Get over here, and stay still.”

Your foolish lips curve into a flustered smile, because that’s the closest you’ll get, you think, to ever hear him say he wants you with him so he can rest.

You school your features before you turn around though, and even if you’ve already toed off the sandals and are getting on your side of the bed, you still taunt, “You could just ask me to lay with you, you know.”

Instead of replying, he closes his eyes and settles on the pillow. Fully aware he probably feels your eyes on him but frankly not caring, you sit, almost on your side with your legs drawn up close, and study him and the small twitches of pain and tension he still gives away every few seconds.

You dare think the pain has dulled, compared to earlier at least, judging by the sweat that pooled on his brow and the moans and whimpers of pain he couldn’t keep from leaving his lips even through gritted teeth.

“Tell me about your Gods.” He asks suddenly, without opening his eyes. You startle, betraying a small smile.

“They are just tales to you, aren’t they?”

“Mhm, but it is the same to you about my Gods.” He argues, eyes still closed and you find yourself stupidly missing the strange warmth mixed with electricity that runs through you when his eyes meet your own.

“No, I…I believe,” You debate with yourself for a moment about telling him that the same night prayers to Persephone for answers on why Fate had brought you to his side left your lips, so did prayers to Freyja. Instead, you whisper, “Your Seer told Sieghild about me, you know.”

This gets him to open his eyes, and before he can ask the questions you see shining in them, you continue,

“She came to Kattegat before she departed East with Rorik. She was told by the Seer that she was to return here a mother, and so she always held the dream of bringing me to Scandinavia with her. When we came here with the Saxons she …said it was Fate, that it was maybe too late, but Fate regardless,” You smile to yourself, absentmindedly trying to figure out the ins and outs of Ivar’s braids as you recall with a chuckle, “‘ _When the throne is empty, when the witch reigns, when the temple burns_ ; _the Gods will summon her here_ ,’ she used to repeat that a lot.”

“That’s…the years Ragnar was gone. When my mother was ruling over Kattegat.” He states, not even a question.

You nod your head, feeling a strange knot of emotion in your throat that keeps you from speaking for the couple of times you try. After a deep breath, you insist,

“You’re supposed to be sleeping, not talking, by the way.”

“The pain is…duller,” Ivar says, even if he closes his eyes again, “It’s manageable, I can stay awake.”

“What do you want to stay awake for?” You ask around a chuckle, hopeless and so foolish.

He only shrugs, even if the movement is accompanied by a frown and a muted sound of pain that stays locked past tightly-pressed lips.

“Tell me about your Gods.”

You sigh, “One of my own choosing?”

“Yes,” He replies without hesitation, adding a moment later, “Those tell me the most about you, you know.”

Your lips curve into a smile, uneven and scared and truer than any other before, and you feel it is only so because Ivar’s eyes remain closed.

____

For what is left of the day, you remain at Ivar’s side. And thankfully he is able to spend most of that time in manageable pain -though, if you are honest with yourself, you try not to imagine what ‘manageable’ is to him, having lived with this his whole life. What he calls a good day would make any other fall to their knees in agony, most likely-, and some of that, actually resting.

You make yourself useful, in the time you spend at his side. Grinding some herbs you make the plan to keep at hand, reciting to yourself what you remember of useful ingredients for pain and broken bones.

At some point during the afternoon, you stop your counting in Greek of the ingredients you know, trying to make a mental list of those you will be able to acquire, and in the silence you leave behind Ivar hums a complaint.

You roll your eyes, and continue once again listing ingredients and techniques in your own tongue, your voice soft and barely above a murmur.

The next morning, when you pointedly move a platter with elderberries and a sweetened tisane of willow to accompany them to the center of the table, Ivar narrows his eyes.

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are.” He grumbles.

You reply only with a smile as you place some of the berries -what you know he knows to be mild analgesics, especially paired with willow- on your mouth.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”


	3. Σέργω

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Σέργω (stérgōto): love (mostly of non-sexual affection), to show affection, to be content, to acquiesce (Ancient Greek)
> 
> This one is just filler stuff that I particularly liked cause it’s the closest thing I can get to fluff without making myself feel insecure. It happens between chapters 26 and 27 (27 and 28 on AO3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this is one giant thing of me just referencing Orpheus and Eurydice’s story and making a lot of parallels between Persephone/Hades and the Reader/Ivar. That is about it.
> 
> Self indulgent? Yes. Unnecesary? Also yes. Do I love it tho? Another yes.

And calm slowly but surely starts returning. Granted, it is slightly disrupted by the ‘diplomatic’ visit of one King Harald, who, according to Ivar, probably comes to Kattegat as a subtle reminder of the deals Ivar once made and to gauge at how stable the marriage proves to be.

And the possibility of children, which is not something you had considered before.

And something you won’t start thinking about now, definitely.

You smile in greeting, try not to recoil in disgust when the man with the inked face presses a kiss to the back of your hand; and for once stay quiet and only watch.

The nights that he spends progress simply enough, though you do notice Ivar goes to bed by the time you’ve already fallen asleep most of the nights the King spends in Kattegat, presumably talking with Harald, and you notice Hvitserk be colder than you could have ever believed him to be, as he smiles at the older man.

Even Ubbe, in all his apparent calmness, seems on edge during the time the other man spends in his brother’s kingdom.

The realization he is very much a threat, especially now that he has grounds to feel wronged by Ivar; is something you don’t know what to do with, how to feel about.

“Is he…a threat?” You ask one night, laying on your back in the darkness of the room you share with the man they made to be your husband.

Ivar sighs, “No. He is an ally. He is…angry, but nothing to be worried about.”

The low cadence of his voice, the choice of words…a part of you wonders if Ivar is truly trying to, in his own way, soothe you.

“You angered a great many people marrying me, didn’t you?”

“Just Harald.” He grunts, getting more comfortable.

“And me.”

Ivar smirks, “You won’t go to war against me.”

“For now,” You concede with a breathed laugh. After a moment, you whisper, “What will you do with him?”

“Giving him a looser leash in York will keep him happy. When Stithulf is dealt with and winter passes, we will raid from York again,” Ivar explains, closing his eyes again, “We’ll see then what we can grant him to keep him settled.”

You hum in response, letting your eyes fall closed. Too late you think about what you’re doing when you move closer to Ivar, one of your arms intertwining with his and your cheek resting against his shoulder. You feel him tense under you, and though you wait a few breaths in silence, he doesn’t move. He may not be breathing. With a sigh, you mumble, “I can poison him and make it look like an accident, you just say the word.”

That does manage to make a short laugh leave Ivar’s lips. You pretend to ignore how it trembles past his lips, how his breath is still uneven before he goes back to the unnatural stillness.

Though you consider moving back, wishing that he can relax again, you don’t move. He is too unbelievably _warm_ for you to do anything other than closing your eyes and letting his controlled breaths lull you to sleep.

____

You eye the man with the inked face from your place at the other end of the long table, and, laying your chin on your husband’s shoulder, you silently demand his attention.

Ivar turns his head slightly towards you so, making good use of many late hours teaching him your tongue, you whisper, “ _I don’t like him, not one bit._ ”

He chuckles, and a strange pride fills you at being able to make him laugh.

In the accented and still rough Greek, he replies, “ _Me neither._ ”

“ _I don’t appreciate how he looks at me._ ”

Ivar smiles at this, a lot colder, a lot more…cruel. You know he delights himself in knowing he has you while others want you; especially someone like this King.

“ _He always wanted what he cannot have. But Harald is harmless._ ”

“ _No one is harmless here. Your people ar-…”_

“Our people.” He corrects, switching to his own tongue. You roll your eyes.

“The people of Kattegat may be my people as well, but not…Vikings. You have strange customs and even stranger…moral values.”

“Didn’t you promise your love in exchange for an army?” He taunts without hesitation, making you narrow your eyes at him. Ivar offers only a shrug and a mocking smile in response.

“How else was I supposed to get one?” You intone after a moment, tilting your head to the side.

As the night progresses, though you find yourself offering too many fake smiles, you also find yourself learning _a lot_ about the world -and family- you married into.

“And your wife…”

“Ex-wife.” Ubbe corrects, you remain in silence for a moment or two before you continue.

“Your ex-wife, she was…happy with this arrangement?”

“More than ‘happy’, I’d say.” Hvitserk points out, and a smiling Ubbe knocks his cup with his.

“Gods above,” You mutter to yourself, and the Princes laugh. Rolling your eyes at their reaction, you lean closer to your husband, whispering, “When you told me about her, you could have told me…about all that.”

Ivar only shrugs, a tension that only comes up, you’ve noticed, when that particular blonde is brought up coiling around his shoulders and back.

A woman that wasn’t so aware of the dark eyes of King Harald studying her ever since he arrived in Kattegat would have let her hands settle on her husband’s back; but you only stay silent and listen with an absent smile to the tale some rugged warrior starts telling.

“Did anyone tell you about Harald and the Princess he was supposed to marry?” Ivar asks by your ear a while later, bringing your attention back to him.

“I’m guessing it is a good love story.”

“There’s better ones.” He replies, and a smile starts to spread on your face.

“Like?”

He returns his gaze to the feast going on before you, and instead of replying starts telling you of a young Harald that set off to become worthy of a princess that -even though Ivar does not see it, and you are certain the protagonist of the story did not either- was never of a mind to marry him. He tells you of how he found her again and she had already married another, a man that, when it comes to land or titles, was lesser than Harald.

He tells you of how her husband was killed in front of her, and how there’s whispers that she tried killing Harald under the guise of seduction only to be stopped and slaughtered by the King’s brother.

He finishes the tale, and you consider the story in your mind as you chew on a few almonds.

“You feel _sorry_ for him, don’t you?” Ivar asks, incredulous. You turn wide eyes to him, and before you can give form to your explanation, the Viking chuckles, “You do. Gods, woman, you’d let someone escape Hel if they told you a love story, wouldn’t you?”

“I…It was tragic. Moving.” you insist, still betraying a smile at the expression on Ivar’s face, “ _Stop it_ , it’s not a fault to have a soft heart.”

He laughs, probably at you, but you find yourself still smiling like a fool. Ivar leans back on his seat, and after a breath of hesitation -that you pretend to ignore, but you both know you’ve noticed- grabs your hand in his and intertwines his fingers and your own.

“Alright. Explain to me why it is that some old fool thinking a princess could love him enough to wait for him is…moving.”

You shrug, your eyes on the stark contrast between his hand and yours where they lay on your lap.

“He loved a woman she never was and she…well, she never loved him at all. Yet Fate brought them together, again and again. It is a tragic tale, as most love stories are, and…”

“And you like tragic stories.” Ivar finishes for you, and you roll your eyes.

“I don’t _like_ them, they just…it’s easier to tell a tragedy than a happy story,” You lean closer and once again resting your chin on his shoulder as he looks back at the feast, you whisper, “Harald’s story with his Princess wouldn’t be one to tell if it weren’t tragic. With her death, with that fallout, the illusion of how happy they could have been, of how perfect everything could have been, remains alive.”

“Is that how you feel about that commander of yours?” He asks suddenly, and when you lean back in surprise he only grabs your hand tighter and keeps his eyes ahead, “You think of how _perfect_ everything could have been with him?”

“Narses?” You ask, incredulous, “No, why would I-…?” Realization dawns on you and you narrow your eyes, “You can’t be jealous of a dead man.”

For a moment you see the clear tell that you’ve struck a nerve, but Ivar recovers quickly enough, leaning closer to you and eyeing you with a barely-there smirk in place.

“You were jealous of a slave.”

“Former slave. A slave _you_ freed, and didn’t tell me about even when she became my friend.” You point out, furrowing your brows at the way his smile grows even more smug.

“I married _you_ ,” He reminds you, but you roll your eyes. Ivar chuckles, knowing, “Doesn’t help much, does it?”

“It should to you!” You insist lowly, “I never let _him_ marry me, and he was…”

“Perfect?” He supplies bitterly.

“Someone that didn’t abduct me.”

“And why did you let me make you my wife then, hm?”

_Because I wanted to, because it was the one thing that let me stay._

“The Gods only know.” You reply, mock annoyance on your voice, because you cannot bring yourself to be upfront, you cannot bring yourself to give away this truth just yet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ảγαπάω (agapáō): to treat with affection, be fond of, love; to be beloved; and also to show brotherly love (Ancient Greek)
> 
> This takes place exactly between chapter 28 and chapter 29, it was originally chapter 29 but I decided to make it a deleted/extra chapter instead. It centers on the relationship with the other sons of Ragnar, and Ivar and his boundaries, for lack of a better explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter. It is a deleted one, but bc I feel like it doesn’t particularly bring anything new to the table, not bc I don’t think it’s important. It is, at least for me. The boundaries thing that is spoken of in this chapter is a favorite of mine.

You realized months ago Ivar has no respect for other people’s boundaries, and that includes yours, even when you give him a piece of your mind at every transgression and kick and scream all the way.

You realized months ago too that Ivar has so many boundaries of himself, that, hypocritically enough, no one is to disrespect or ignore. They usually revolve around his legs, his pain, his authority, his honor, his capabilities; and you have learned to live with them, even if you more than once find yourself threading those limits with a quickly beating heart.

And then there’s this very specific boundary you have realized weeks ago Ivar has. There’s this…ward around him, like a physical barrier that if you are to cross you find a completely different man looking back at you.

There’s something in the way he looks at you when you cross that imaginary boundary by leaning a little too close, by laying a hand on his arm, by lowering your voice and looking into his eyes. And that something is much more evident when he is the one to cross said barrier.

When he is the one to cross it, you notice, he does it so uncharacteristically braced for rejection that the sudden change in demeanor startles you every time. When he is the one to lean closer, when he is the one to put an uncertain but possessive hand on your knee, when it is his voice that lowers and his secrets that spill; there’s so much for you to see, and now, as he crosses that invisible barrier tonight, you realize something else.

Ivar leans so close you can feel his breaths caressing your bare neck as he speaks lowly, only for you to hear, but you cannot hear anything past your heart beating in your own head, and you cannot keep your eyes off his hand.

It rests open, unexpectedly vulnerable on the table. Fingers loose, palm facing upwards. As if it waits for the touch of yours.

You realize then truly how much power he has given you over himself, over his secrets, over the man past that invisible barrier.

So, with warmth spreading over your chest, you quieten thoughts of who you ought to be and reach confidently for his hand, trapping it with your own and delighting yourself in the way immediately, almost inevitably, his fingers close around yours.

He pulls back barely enough to meet your eyes, and does so with many questions written in his, but you offer him a one-shouldered shrug and a small smile.

There’s foolish and cursed hopes growing in your heart, painting a future you know you shouldn’t want, and know you cannot have. Hopes of finding warmth in this land of cold, of finding life and freedom surrounded by death and iron.

“I hope you know, brother, that you owe me for this.” Hvitserk calls out, startling you.

You turn around in your chair to find him entering the hall with two small bottles in one of his hands and a smile on his face. He falters when he looks at you and his brother, but decides only to widen his smile and send you a silent message with his warm eyes.

Still, Ivar leans back into his seat, barrier back in place and untouched, and motions for his brother to approach.

“You actually found it?” Ivar asks his brother, accepting the small bottle the other Viking gives him and looking at the foreign liquid.

“It wounds me that you thought I couldn’t.” Hvitserk points out, serving himself a cup of mead and sitting down in front of you.

Ivar says nothing, only sparing his brother a glance that seems to share a secret message between the two of them.

Then, he turns to you, and offers you the bottle.

“Rose wine.”

Your easy smile drops as shock fills you. A conversation in what feels like a lifetime ago, where you were babbling on about wines and whatever came to your mind.

Where you told him that your favorite was rose wine.

Your smile is tremulous as it returns to your lips, and you grasp the bottle with trembling fingers. You were gifted a crown, and though it remains one of the gifts that you’d never willingly part from, it still doesn’t mean as much as this.

A foolish, sentimental part of you wants to make a knot close your throat, wants to make your eyes sting with tears and…Gods, when was the last time you allowed yourself to feel safe enough to be soft like this?

“You remembered,” You whisper, almost to yourself, before lifting your eyes to his. The fact that a silver of uncertainty, of apprehension, shines in Ivar’s eyes makes your smile widen, your heart beat faster, “Thank you.”

He says nothing, a hand by his mouth hiding a smile of his own, and motions with a subtle movement of his head for you to pour yourself some.

You do, feeling strangely giddy. It’s been so long since you’ve had rose wine.

The dark-skinned girl shakes her head, the braids that have Sieghild’s mark on their tightness and finesse following the movement, and passes you the bottle.

“I do not want peace.” Galla growls, teeth bared in a way that makes you realize why the savage and bloodthirsty Anax of Sparta himself wants her as a wife.

You swallow the warm and sweet liquid, and ask, “What do you want then?”

“I want it all.”

You chuckle, “Don’t we all?”

Galla turns dark eyes to you in a side glance, and lifts the bottle in silent toast when you pass it back to her.

“And here I sit and drink with the one woman mad enough to actually achieve it all.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, “Oh, yes. Mighty Anassa of Attica, without an army, without lands.”

“With the love of one warrior you got yourself a kingdom,” The spy knocks her shoulder with yours, “If anyone is to believe in destiny, my friend, it’s you.”

“Fate.” You say, deadpan. When the throne is empty…“Is your Fate also woven by Gods you do not worship?” You ask bitterly, taking a long sip from the sweet wine.

“No matter which Gods lay claim on your soul, I’ll only say the world is lucky no man claims your heart. With a man’s love you got yourself a kingdom, but your love could build a man an empire.”

“Why should I build it for any man?” You tease, a sly smile on your lips. Your smile is secret, secret like that anger you’ve held inside your heart for so long, secret like that kiss you shared with that Ayyubid girl in the tent, secret like the dreams you’ve had of the woman with the red veil. The hunger inside of you, the restlessness, the ambition; none of that surprises you anymore. What surprises you is seeing it all bare in Galla’s eyes as well.

“Like I said,” She laughs, accepting the bottle and pointing with it to you, “The one woman mad enough to achieve it all.”

You offer your husband a taste from your own cup, and only smile in reluctantly fond exasperation as he mutters about it being to sweet.

Whatever it is you were to say is interrupted by the sure steps of Ubbe walking into the room, wiping his hands on the cloak he takes off, returning form probably spending a good part of the morning preparing for the trip back to Dublin.

He walks confidently to the table, touching Ivar’s head as he passes him by and nodding at Hvitserk, with you being the only one he greets with a proper good morning.

He stretches to take the rose wine bottle from Hvitserk’s hand.

“What’s this?” Ubbe asks, eyeing the bottle in his hand.

Hvitserk leans back on his chair, hands folded over his stomach.

“Our sister-…”

“Don’t call me that.” You interrupt, but the Prince only winks at you in response.

“Prefers wine, it seems.” Hvitserk finishes anyways.

“Yes, I noticed you don’t drink much mead,” Ubbe frowns, putting the bottle back on the table and taking a seat next to Hvitserk, stealing a small handful of hazelnuts as he does so. “Why?”

“Because she’s a lightweight.” Ivar replies for you, sly smile on his lips.

“I…am not!” You argue, but it is pointless.

“We have seen you drunk, don’t forget that,” Hvitserk smirks your way, ignoring your narrowed eyes, and adds pointedly, “Sister.”

Leaning back on your own chair, you tilt your head to the side and say,

“I wouldn’t mock the woman that saw you run in tears into her shop because you thought your cock was cursed, Prince Hvitserk.”

The Prince looks utterly betrayed, though an amused smile curves his lips, even as Ubbe chokes on his drink as he laughs.

“You what!?” Ubbe asks, voice hoarse as he hits at the center of his chest with his fist.

Ivar’s eyes look between you and his brother, but he betrays a mocking smile as well.

You take his hand and intertwine your fingers with his, before you lean closer to your husband and whisper in Greek, “He told us his cock was about to fall off.”

You startle a laugh out of Ivar, and he presses his brow to the crown of your head as his shoulders shake silently. You laugh alongside him, you can’t help it; the unburdened, young, free sound of his soft laughter by your ear warming you to your core.

The younger Prince drags a hand over his face, and explains in a sigh, “Thora saw me with some merchant thrall, and she said a lot of words,” He frowns, recalling, “I don’t remember most of them, but they sounded like curses.”

Ivar’s eyes narrow as he tries making sense of his brother’s logic.

“That…It doesn’t work like that,” His lips curve into a side smile, and brings your hand to his lips before offering, sharing a look with you, “If a woman shouting at you meant she was cursing you, trust me, brother, I’d know.”

It is not his words, though you respond to them with a smile and a shrug of acquiescence; but his gesture what stays with you, what makes you for a moment stop and think.

Past the electrifying warmth that courses through you every time you feel his lips on your skin even if it is just a kiss pressed over your fingers or the back of your hand; or the touch of his skin on yours, even if it is just careful fingers trailing up or down your back as he works on the laces of your dress; past the flutter of your foolish heart, past everything, you realize something.

Since he first brought you to his side, every gesture Ivar makes, especially when it comes to you, is deliberate, calculated. His hand holding onto yours when he announced to the people of Kattegat you would be married, a deliberate angling of his upper body towards you when he made the same announcement to his brothers.

But now, you realize, the simple but heavy gesture of lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your fingers seems to come so naturally, so effortlessly for him.

It makes you think there’s more than one kind of walls for you to break or climb over. It makes you think you’ve crumbled many of those walls to dust without realizing.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” Hvitserk presses, eyes on his younger brother, “That she could?”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Ivar insists.

“So the rumors about her bewitching you…”

“Not this again.” You sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Don’t try making us forget you believed Thora cursed your cock.” Ubbe chuckles, shaking his head as he once again imagines the sight of Hvitserk on a panic at the thought of having his prick cursed.

The younger Prince waves one of his arms as he starts arguing, and from the corner of your eye you see Ivar gesturing with his hand not on yours, interrupting his older brother. The sons of Ragnar continue discussing whatever it is that you can’t focus on, continue to share laughs at Hvitserk’s expense. And you put your hand joined with Ivar’s under your chin, and sigh, resisting the urge to press a kiss on his knuckles.

You allow yourself to bask in the strange, foreign, priceless familiarity of this, a small smile on your face and a thrill of something in your heart.

It is only when you are halfway to the shop that your smile trembles. It shouldn’t feel easy, familiar, this new life of yours. This place shouldn’t feel like home. Ivar shouldn’t be someone you can love.

Repeating to yourself like a mantra the arrangement you made on the first morning after your wedding helps you stomp down the bubble of panic that starts taking form inside of you.

You tell yourself this is only temporary, that it doesn’t matter what happens, that nothing matters until you are able to make your choice. You ignore the voice that whispers you are lying to yourself, twisting your own rules so you can put something as foolish as love over duty, even if only for a time, even if only for as long as you can remain in this world between worlds.

____

You are overseeing the shipments of tinctures and presses to be taken for the trip and any battle that may occur shortly after they cross the sea, when the eldest son of Ragnar in Kattegat approaches you, leaning his back and head down so he meets your eyes comfortably.

“Thank you for this,” He says, eyes switching for a moment to the thralls that are loading the crates onto the ships before returning to yours. Ubbe smiles, “Kattegat was missing a woman like you.”

Before you can reply the Prince straightens, and offers you his arm. You take it, and he walks with you away from the docks, towards the longhouse.

“Ivar told me of the pact you made,” Ubbe starts without prompting, and you turn to him, a frown on your brow, “On your first morning as husband and wife.”

“Please don’t tell me you once again think I’m planning on betraying him.”

“No,” He confesses, before a deep breath, “But I won’t return before my brothers move for Strepshire. We may not see each other again before Stithulf dies.”

“We may not see each other again.” You correct, realization dawning on you like a mist of cold. You stop walking, and drop the Prince’s arm, stepping back.

“It’s in the hands of the Gods.” He offers, a shrug of his shoulders.

“It always is.” You reply, hesitating only for a moment when Ubbe offers you his arm.

When you start walking again, you cannot shake off the dread, the finality, that comes with the realization that life as you know it might end in a matter of months, maybe weeks.

Ubbe clears his throat, drawing your attention to him. He offers, “I saw that Saxon fight, he is not easy to kill.”

“Much to his fortune.” You grumble without missing a beat. A voice in the back of your head tells you he meant to reassure you, to cheer you up. You refuse to listen to that voice, because that would imply many things you are not ready to face yet.

Ubbe looks at you from the corner of his eye, and offers a smile, “And the fortune of others.”

____

You stand at Ivar’s side as Ubbe departs for Dublin. The people start dissipating, and soon Ivar motions with his head, telling you to get moving.

The distinctive wail of a hawk brings your attention to the messenger, and you watch the bird take off from its place on a nearby roof towards the trees further north, past the walls. You follow it with your eyes, your heart telling you to chase after it, but you quieten that thought quickly.

“Messenger of Freyja.” Ivar states at your side, his eyes on the same animal.

Your lips tremble into a smile, “Symbols of Hermes, messenger of the Gods.”

“You told me of him.” He states, turning to you and trying to pinpoint the tale you told him of the God.

You shake your head, “He is the one that ventured into the Underworld to take its new Queen back to the living.”

“Your Goddess.”

“The one whose name we cannot speak,” You remind him with a small smile, before continuing, “He wandered to the realm of the dead with a message, with the task to set her free from King Hades.”

“And did he succeed?”

“We have spring, do we not?”

“And winter.” Ivar insists, to which you shrug.

“I suppose whether he succeeded or not, just like whether she had a choice or not, shall remain a mystery then.”


End file.
